Worth Every Penny
A Fictional Story by Camwhore1.
The circumcision was botched. That’s the clinical term the urologist used when I finally worked up the nerve to get checked at twenty-three. Botched. As if a surgeon just had a bad day and accidentally removed half my shaft skin and left me with something that barely functions as a penis. Erect, I measure just under an inch. An inch. At twenty-seven, I have the erection of a toddler, and the flaccid state is even worse — a wrinkled little nub that barely protrudes past my body, surrounded by tight, scarred skin that makes the whole thing look broken. Because it is broken, it’s a micropenis by medical definition, and no amount of self-talk or body positivity is ever going to change the physical reality between my legs.
I was a virgin at twenty-three when I got the diagnosis. I’m a virgin now. In between, nothing changed except the way I framed it to myself. For a while, I tried to pretend it didn’t matter. I told myself size wasn’t everything, that the right person wouldn’t care, that there was more to intimacy than penetration. All the things you read online from well-meaning people who have never stood naked in front of a mirror and seen what I see. A little boy’s dick on a grown man’s body. Useless. Pathetic. A punchline waiting to happen.
The first time I showed it to a woman online, I almost threw up.
It was an accident, sort of. I’d been on a chat roulette site, not even looking for anything sexual, just bored and lonely on a Friday night. A woman appeared on screen — mid-thirties, dark hair, casual, eating cereal in what looked like a college dorm room. She waved. I waved back. We chatted for two minutes about nothing. Then she typed, “Show me something.”
I don’t know what possessed me. Loneliness, probably. The desperate need for any kind of attention from a woman, even this. I pulled down my sweatpants and underwear in one motion and sat there, exposed, my tiny flaccid nub on camera for the first time in my life.
She stared for a long moment. Then she leaned closer to her screen, squinting, and started laughing. Not a polite chuckle. A full, open-mouthed, cereal-sputtering laugh. She typed: wait, is that real?? That’s your actual dick??
I should have closed the laptop. Should have felt ashamed and retreated. Instead, my heart started pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. My face went hot. My stomach dropped. And my little dick — that broken, useless, barely-there nub — started to stiffen. All three-quarters of an inch of it, twitching pathetically on camera while a stranger laughed at it.
It’s so small omg she typed. I literally thought it was a thumb.
I came without touching myself. Just from the laughter. Just from the shame. A thin, weak spurt that dribbled down my shaft and pooled in my pubic hair while she kept typing jokes about my baby dick. I sat there afterward, panting, ashamed, and more aroused than I’d ever been in my life.
I was hooked.
—
Within a week, I’d found the cam sites. Within a month, I’d blown through two paychecks. Within three months, I’d stopped caring about the money entirely.
The routine is always the same, and I need the routine the way an addict needs the ritual. I close the blinds. I set up my laptop on the desk, adjust the webcam angle so my crotch is centered in the frame. I strip from the waist down. I log on.
The anticipation alone gets me hard. Well — hard is a generous term for what happens to me. My micropenis swells from its flaccid half-inch nub to its full erect length of just under an inch. It stands straight up, this tiny, rigid little peg, the scarred skin pulled tight, the head barely visible. On camera, especially when I zoom in, it looks exactly like what it is: a medical anomaly. A joke. A clit with delusions of grandeur.
I browse the models. I’ve learned to read their profiles, their preview thumbnails, their expressions. I look for the ones who smirk. The ones with cruel eyes. The ones whose tag lists include SPH, humiliation, domination. The ones who will take one look at my screen and know exactly what to do with me.
Last Tuesday, I found a girl going by the handle BrattyBianca. She was maybe twenty-four, blonde, with sharp cheekbones and a mouth that looked like it was built for cruelty. Her thumbnail showed her in a bikini top, leaning forward, one eyebrow raised. Her tagline read: Your tiny dick is my entertainment.
I was already leaking before I even entered her room.
She greeted me with a smile that was all teeth. “Private show, baby?”
“Yes,” I typed. Then, because I’d learned that words make it better: “I want you to see something first.”
I adjusted the camera. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, watching. I sat back and let my tiny erection fill the frame.
Her reaction was immediate and perfect. Her eyes widened for a split second — genuine surprise, not performed — and then the smirk arrived. Slow, spreading, devastating. She pressed her hand over her mouth, but I could see the smile underneath. The laugh was already coming.
“Oh. My. God.” Her voice was warm with amusement. “Is that… is that actually your dick?”
“Yes.”
“Show me. Stand up. Let me see all of you.”
I stood. Six feet of pale, nervous, twenty-seven-year-old man with a one-inch erection jutting from his body like a broken twig. I turned slowly so she could see it from every angle. The side view was the worst — or the best, depending on your perspective. From the side, my erection is almost invisible, just a tiny bump against my lower stomach.
Bianca was openly laughing now. “Oh my god, oh my god. I’ve done small dick humiliation for like two years, and I’ve never — that’s not small, that’s micro. That’s a medical condition. Can you even fuck with that?”
“No.”
“Have you ever?”
“No.”
“A virgin!” She clapped her hands together, delighted. “A twenty-seven-year-old virgin with a baby dick. This is the best thing that’s happened to me all week. What’s your name, pindick?”
I told her.
She repeated it back, savoring each syllable, then added: “Well, [name], let me ask you something. Does that little thing even cum? Like, can you actually produce semen from that little clit?”
“I can.”
“Show me.”
I wrapped my thumb and two fingers around my tiny erection — that’s all it takes, three fingers, because there’s nothing else to hold — and started stroking. On camera, the motion looked absurd. My hand barely moved because there was barely anything to stroke. I was essentially rubbing a little nub while a beautiful woman watched and laughed.
“Pump that baby dick,” she said, her voice dropping into a mocking purr. “That’s it. Stroke your little clitty for me. Can you even call that stroking? You’re just rubbing it as a girl plays with herself.”
My face was burning. My chest was tight. The precum was flowing freely now, a clear bead forming at the tip and sliding down my tiny shaft, making my fingers slick. The humiliation was so intense it felt physical, like pressure behind my eyes, heat in my throat, trembling in my hands.
“You’re leaking,” she observed. “That little thing gets wet like a pussy too. Are you sure you’re not just a girl with an oversized clit?”
I moaned. I couldn’t help it. The words hit something deep inside me, something that had been building since the urologist’s office, since the first chat roulette laugh, since every moment I’d looked down and seen what wasn’t there.
“Say it,” she said. “Tell me what you are.”
“I have a micropenis.”
“No, tell me what you are.”
“I’m a virgin with a baby dick. I’m pathetic. I’m—”
“You’re a pindick loser who pays women to laugh at his useless little nub. Say it.”
“I’m a pindick loser who pays women to laugh at my useless little nub.”
She grinned. “Good boy. Now keep rubbing that little thing while I take a screenshot.”
The sound of the screenshot — that fake camera click the site uses — sent a spike through my chest. She was saving the image. My tiny erection, my flushed skin, my pathetic stroking hand, captured and stored on her computer and maybe uploaded somewhere and maybe shared.
“Done,” she said, holding up her phone to show me the screenshot on her screen. “I’m sending this to my roommate. She’s going to lose her mind.”
“Please,” I said, and I didn’t even know if I meant please stop or please do it.
“Too late.” She typed something on her phone, looked at the screen, and laughed. “She says, and I quote, ‘what the fuck is that thing, is that a penis or a thumb?’ She wants to know if you’ll do a show for her too.”
I came. A weak, dribbling orgasm that barely produced anything, three thin spurts that oozed out of my little nub and slid down my fingers. My whole body shook. The shame and the pleasure were so tangled I couldn’t separate them, couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
Bianca watched me cum with that sharp, amused expression. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? God, you really are useless. Even your cum is pathetic.”
—
The screenshot thing became a pattern. After Bianca, I started requesting it. Or rather, I started finding models who did it without being asked.
There was a brunette who went by CruelCarla — dark hair, full lips, a body that could stop traffic. She specialized in what she called “evidence sessions.” Within thirty seconds of seeing my dick, she had her screenshot tool open.
“Smile for the camera, baby dick,” she said, capturing the image. Then she held up her phone, showing me the screenshot. “Look at that. Look at how tiny you are. That little thing is literally a punchline. I could post this and get a thousand likes.”
“Would you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Would I what? Post it?” She tilted her head, considering. “Maybe. Would that scare you or make that little nub even harder?”
“Both.”
She laughed. “Of course it would. You’re addicted to this. You’re addicted to women laughing at your broken little dick. That’s pathetic in itself, you know that? You can’t even get off like a normal man. You need cruelty. You need to be reminded that you’re not a real man.”
She took another screenshot. Then another. She arranged them on her screen, side by side, my tiny dick from multiple angles. “I’m building a portfolio,” she said. “A little gallery of the smallest dick I’ve ever seen. Should I share it with my followers?”
My heart was hammering so hard I thought I’d pass out. The precum was dripping steadily now, a constant slow leak from my little nub that made my fingers slick and shiny.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “I’ll send one screenshot to my boyfriend—just one. And I’ll tell him this is the smallest dick on the internet. And I’ll let you watch his reaction.”
She picked up her phone, typed, and waited. Thirty seconds later, a reply came in. She read it and burst out laughing.
“He says, ‘Is that a dick or a button?’ He wants to know if you’re a real person or if I photoshopped it. I told him it’s real. He says he feels sorry for you. He says, and I’m reading this directly, ‘that guy should just give up and become a woman.'”
She held up the phone so I could see the text exchange. Her boyfriend’s messages, in plain black and white, mocking my dick. A real man, with presumably a real cock, laughing at me through his girlfriend’s screen. The humiliation was so intense my vision blurred.
“Want me to tell him you’re a virgin too?”
“Yes.”
She typed. The reply came back in seconds: “LMAO no surprise there. No woman would let that near her. Tell him to buy a dildo and give up.”
Carla read it aloud, her voice slow and deliberate, making sure I absorbed every word. I was stroking my little nub with three fingers, my hand barely moving, my whole body trembling. The shame was a physical sensation now, a weight on my chest, a fire in my face, a hollow ache in my stomach that somehow translated into the most intense arousal I’d ever experienced.
“He wants to see you cum,” Carla said. “He wants to see what a pathetic orgasm looks like from a baby dick. Can you do that for him?”
I came in under a minute. Barely anything came out — a few thin drops that oozed rather than spurted, pooling in my fingers. Carla took a screenshot of that too.
“Sent,” she said. “He says, and I quote, ‘that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. Tell him to keep his day job because he’s never going to please a woman.'”
The comparisons are what really break me.
It was a redhead named WickedWillow who started it. She was pale, freckled, with green eyes and a cruel smile that could curdle milk. I’d been in her room for ten minutes, already stripped and exposed, my little erection on full display while she leaned close to her camera and laughed at it.
“Wait here,” she said, and disappeared off screen for a moment. When she came back, she was holding something. A dildo. Not just any dildo — a massive, flesh-colored, ten-inch monster that looked almost comically large in her small hands.
“This,” she said, holding it up next to her face, “is my boyfriend’s size. Not exactly — he’s a little thicker — but close enough. This is what a real cock looks like.”
She held it at the base, pointing it at the camera. It was thick, veined, imposing. The head was bigger than my entire erection.
“Now,” she said, “I want you to put your little thing right up to your camera so I can see them side by side. Go on.”
I leaned forward, positioning my tiny one-inch erection at the edge of the screen. On one side of the frame, Willow’s face and the massive dildo. On the other, my pathetic little nub.
The contrast was devastating.
“Look at that,” she breathed, and her voice was full of genuine wonder. “Look at that. His cock is bigger soft than yours is hard. His head is bigger than your whole dick. You see this? This is what women actually want. This is what goes inside us and makes us feel something. Your little thing? It would get lost. It wouldn’t even reach the walls. You’d be in there, humping with your little nub, and the woman wouldn’t even feel it.”
She was right. I knew she was right. I’d known it since the urologist’s office, since the first time I measured and the ruler barely registered a full inch. But hearing it from a beautiful woman, seeing the visual comparison on screen, feeling the words land like blows — it was something else entirely.
“You’re not a man,” she said, and her voice had gone quiet, almost gentle, which made it worse. “Not really. Not where it counts. You have a little clitty where a cock should be. And the saddest part? You’re paying me to tell you that. You’re paying me to hold up a real dick next to your little nub and tell you the truth you already know.”
I was crying. Not loudly, not dramatically, just tears sliding down my cheeks while my little dick leaked and my hand trembled. The humiliation had gone past arousal into something deeper, something that felt like being cracked open and having all the shame I’d ever felt about my body poured back into me at once.
“Good,” Willow said softly. “Cry for me. Cry for that little dick. That’s the most honest thing you’ve done all night.”
She took a screenshot of my tear-streaked face and my tiny erection in the same frame. “This one’s for my personal collection,” she said. “The little-dicked virgin who cried while I compared him to a real man. Beautiful.”
—
The cumdump sessions are the ones I’m most ashamed of. And the ones I keep going back to.
It started about three months in. I’d been watching humiliation porn between cam sessions, and I’d stumbled into a genre that combined SPH with forced-bi and cum-eating themes. The idea wouldn’t leave me: being used and being a receptacle. Being so worthless that the only thing I was good for was taking loads from real men.
I can’t actually do that. I’m a virgin who’s never been with anyone, male or female. But I could simulate it.
I bought a bottle of that fake cum fluid — the realistic-looking stuff they sell for porn shoots and pranks. Thick, white, slightly warm when microwaved. The first time I used it, I sat in front of my webcam with my heart pounding and my tiny dick trembling, and I drizzled it over my own face. Thick globs sliding down my cheeks, dripping off my chin, pooling in the hollow of my throat. I looked like a roomful of men had just used me. I looked like a cumdump.
The camgirl I was with that night was a blonde named HarlotHannah. She was curvy, sharp-tongued, and she had a reputation for being merciless. When she saw my face on camera, slick and dripping with fake cum, she stopped mid-sentence and just stared.
“What the fuck,” she said, and then the laugh erupted. “What the fuck. Did you just — did you cover your face in cum? Did a bunch of guys use you, you little slut?”
I swallowed hard. “Yes. A group of them. They used me.”
“Used you how? As what?”
“As their cumdump. Their slut. They took turns.”
She leaned back, her eyes bright with cruel delight. “A cumdump. You let a group of men use you as a cumdump. With that tiny little dick between your legs, of course you’d be the one getting used instead of doing the using. You’re not a man. You’re a hole. A cum receptacle. A little sissy baby-dicked cumdump.”
The words hit me like electricity. My tiny dick was twitching, leaking, throbbing with that pathetic little pulse it has. The fake cum was sliding down my face, dripping onto my chest, and I sat there in it while this woman tore me apart.
“Lick it,” she said suddenly. “Lick it off your lips. Show me what a cum-slurping sissy you are.”
I licked my lips. The fake cum was salty-sweet, thick on my tongue. I licked more, scooping it with my fingers and bringing it to my mouth while she watched.
“Oh my god,” she said, pulling out her phone. “I’m recording this. My boyfriend needs to see this. He needs to see what a worthless cuck looks like. A baby-dicked virgin covered in cum, licking it off his own face. This is the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot.”
She held up her phone, the camera pointed at her screen, recording me. I could see the red recording light reflected in her eyes. She was capturing this, saving it, and maybe sharing it.
“Say hi to my boyfriend, cumdump. Tell him what you are.”
I looked at the camera. My face was covered in fake cum, my tiny dick was visible below, and I said, with a shaking voice: “I’m a baby-dicked virgin cumdump. I’m pathetic. I’m worthless. I can’t please a woman. I let men use me instead.”
“Perfect,” she said. “Sent. He’s going to show his friends. They’re all going to laugh at you. A group of real men, with real cocks, laughing at the cum-covered sissy with the micropenis. How does that make you feel?”
“Like I want to cum.”
“Then cum, you little sissy. Cum with that baby dick while I film you. But don’t you dare wipe that cum off your face. I want to see it dripping off you when you orgasm.”
I stroked my little nub — three fingers, barely any motion, the fake cum still sliding down my face — and came in thirty seconds. The weakest, most pathetic orgasm of my life, a few thin drops that barely emerged from my tiny erection while fake cum dripped from my chin onto my hand.
She recorded the whole thing. She sent it to her boyfriend. She told me later that he’d shared it with three of his friends. Four real men, watching me cum with a baby dick while covered in fake loads, laughing at what a worthless cuck I was.
I spent two hundred dollars on that session. I’ve repeated it, with variations, at least a dozen times since.
—
The money is the part I try not to think about. In six months, I’ve spent somewhere north of eight thousand dollars. Maybe nine. I stopped keeping track because the number made me sick. Eight thousand dollars to be told I have a baby dick. Eight thousand dollars for screenshots and comparisons and fake cum and cruel laughter. Eight thousand dollars to be degraded by women who, at the end of the day, are doing a job and will forget my face by the next morning.
But I can’t stop. Every session is a fix, and every fix lasts less time than the last one. The first time a camgirl laughed at my dick, I was high for a week. Now I need two or three sessions to get the same rush. The names need to be harsher. The screenshots need to be more invasive. The comparisons need to be more brutal. The cumdump scenarios need to be more elaborate.
Last week, I did a session where I wrote “BABY DICK” across my chest in marker, covered my face in fake cum, and held a printed-out photo of a real man’s cock next to my tiny erection while the camgirl took screenshots and sent them to her boyfriend. I paid extra for her to do a live video call with him while I was on screen so that I could hear his real-time reaction to my micropenis.
He laughed. He called me a sissy. He asked his girlfriend if my dick was “even a real dick or just a skin tag.” She held a ruler up to the camera and asked me to measure myself live, just under an inch. She showed the measurement to her boyfriend. He said, “That’s not a penis. That’s a birth defect.”
I came so hard I saw stars.
Afterward, sitting in the dark with fake cum drying on my face and the chat window closed and the payment processed, the shame is absolute. Not the hot, arousing shame of the session — the cold, hollow shame of reality. I’m twenty-seven. I’m a virgin. I have a micropenis. I spend money I don’t have to be degraded by strangers. I cover my face in fake cum and pretend I’ve been used. I am, by any objective measure, at the bottom of the sexual hierarchy. Below the virgins with normal dicks who just haven’t had the chance yet. Below the guys who are small but functional. Below everyone. A man whose penis is so small and so scarred that it barely exists, who has sexualized his own destruction because it’s the only way his broken body can experience pleasure.
And then, a few days later, the shame fades and the craving returns. I browse the cam sites. I look for new models, crueler models, women who haven’t seen me yet and whose first reaction to my tiny dick will be fresh and genuine. I log on. I strip. I show them.
And the cycle begins again.
—
I know I should stop. I know this is unsustainable — financially, psychologically, in every way. I know that somewhere out there, screenshots and videos of my micropenis are sitting on phones and computers, being shown to boyfriends and roommates and group chats. I know that I’ve turned my deepest shame into a performance, and that the performance has become the only thing that makes me feel alive.
But when a camgirl leans close to her screen, her eyes narrowing, her lips curling into that devastating smirk, and says, “Is that it? That’s your dick? Oh my god, that’s the smallest thing I’ve ever seen” — when she laughs, genuine and unscripted, at the pathetic little nub between my legs — when she holds up a real cock next to my baby dick and the contrast is so absurd that even she has to take a moment to process it —
There is nothing else in my life that feels like that.
Nothing else that makes my heart pound, my face burn, my tiny dick leak, my whole body tremble with that exquisite, devastating, annihilating shame.
I’m a pindick. A baby dick. A clit-dick loser. A cumdump. A sissy. A virgin with a micropenis who pays women to tell him what he already knows.
And I can’t stop.
The End.
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